


Just the worst

by bitterfloof



Series: Sick Fics! [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Common Cold, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, It Gets Worse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Lack of caretaking, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Tony Being Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 21:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitterfloof/pseuds/bitterfloof
Summary: Being sick is somewhat tolerable when you have somebody to look after you - too bad for Clint his flatmates don't seem to care all that much.





	Just the worst

**Author's Note:**

> I had an idea for an anti-sickfic (trademark . . . me) and whilst there is nothing wrong with fluffy sickfics where everybody takes care of each other and it's cute and sappy - let's be real. That's probably inaccurate (though if it's not, lucky you). But amongst my friend group if one of us gets sick - we would not get touched with a 10 foot pole. Never mind getting all up close and personal. So I decided to channel that.
> 
> Enjoy!

Clint was blessed.

Well, kind of.

Blessed in the sense that it was with one very small thing in life; An incredible immune system. One that didn't often fail him - except when it did. When it did, it went really wrong but that was probably once every 3 . . . 4, maybe 5 years if he was lucky. So, when he woke up one morning with a slight blocked up nose and the beginnings of a small headache, he really didn't think much of it.

His first mistake.

He had managed to survive 2 years of university without getting sick. And that included moving out of his family home into a flat with a bunch of strangers (and a bunch of strange germs) and then moving again into a different flat with a different bunch of strangers. However, despite relocating twice with stranger’s germs, Clint was perfectly fine. Maybe he had just built up a tolerance to random germs over the years of schooling and working.

Or so he thought.

Still, a cold was just a cold. It was nothing to worry about what so ever. Take some ibuprofen for the headache, chase it before it became a problem, drink some tea and everything would be fine.

"Do we have any tea?" Clint asked rummaging around the kitchen cupboards, probably mixing up everything that had been stacked there into carefully coordinated whose-stuff-is-whose, but it wasn't like he owned any tea.

"Why would I know?" Tony was lying on one of the standard issue couches with his laptop on his chest. "I don't drink it."

"That wasn't the question I asked."

Clint could almost feel the way Tony's eyes rolled even if he couldn't see it. That was just par for the course with Tony if it didn't concern him; ergo wasn't his problem. It could become really irritating at times as it could be often impossible to just get a straight answer out of him - like, just at that moment.

"I'm not sure." There was a moments pause and Clint could hear the fabric of the couch scratch as Tony sat up. "How come you're looking? You okay?"

"What? Yeah, I think I'm just coming down with a cold."

"Then keep it to yourself."

Tony was fast to exit the small kitchen as his bedroom door slammed behind him. It was Clint’s turn to roll his eyes, he didn't know if Tony was a particularly germophobic person (maybe he was) but it wasn't Clint's concern if he was easily bothered by somebody with a cold - a damn cold, hell barely a cold. The very slight beginnings of what could become a cold! It wasn't anything more than a very small headache and maybe the beginnings of a sore throat.

Big friggin deal.

"Go back to your room."

Tony reappeared almost silently causing Clint to jump and spin round, the room dizzily tilting.

"Why?"

"Because you're sick and in the one social space we have. You'll get the rest of us sick, spreading germs," Tony commented, one hand waving to accentuate his point, the other still clutching onto his laptop.

"Didn't know you cared so much." Clint relented regardless, going back to his room actually sounded pretty nice because then he wouldn't have people like Tony complaining that he was sick. Well sorry, catching a cold just happened to be a natural human thing to do (then again, Clint often suspected Tony wasn't human, so heh that might have explained it).

Exiled back to his bedroom, Clint flipped down onto his bed. He didn't even have anything to take pain killers with, he'd just need to wait until Tony went out or beg one of the other guys to bring him something.

Man, being sick just sucked ass.

 

* * *

 

To reiterate, being sick sucked ass.

Apparently, Tony had told the rest of his flatmates that Clint had a cold and as such he'd become somewhat of a social pariah in the short space of a few hours.

Well, only to some. Tony had insisted that he 'keep it to himself', Steve was a little less annoyed - besides he already looked inhuman, probably had an immune system to match, Thor insisted that he hadn't had a cold since he was a child (though everybody found that hard to believe) and Natasha didn't stick around long enough to say anything.

Thanks Tony, you're a real swell dude. Fucking prick.

"Hey Clint, I'm heading to the shops you need anything?"

Clint, desperate for a little human contact, stuck his head out of his bedroom door to try and talk to Steve a little since he had no issue with Clint's cold - though he still wasn't offering to a bit more of a caretaker. Still, not instantly running away from him was still an improvement over Tony’s cold shoulder attitude.

"Yeah, some green tea would be great. Hang on a second."

He quickly grabbed a couple of notes from his wallet on his desk to throw Steve’s way.

"Thanks Steve."

"No problem."

Going back to lying on his bed, Clint sighed. He didn't have money to go out and had been banned from the living room/kitchen area, there was only so much he could surf online before getting bored of the internet. So, apparently, he'd taken up just staring at the ceiling. It would have been fine - until he felt hungry.

It was going to come sooner or later.

"Just great," Clint muttered to himself. Sorry Tony, but food was necessary for living and Clint quite liked living too (and food). He couldn't really be bothered cooking, so instead grabbed one of those noodle cups that was made using boiling water and nothing more. Usually only saved for emergencies [read: when Clint was on a studying frenzy at the end of the year and couldn't stop to cook] and this was apparently fell under an emergency.

"Oh no, room. I told you."

"Tony, shut up. Please. A man has to eat," Clint said, exasperated. "You're the only person I know who would choose to sit in here to study instead of in their room where it’s no doubt quieter."

"Better internet service," Tony replied waving his laptop as if to add emphasis (instead he just looked kind of like an idiot). "I can't afford to get sick, so wash down everything you touch."

Clint rolled his eyes, Tony was the only person he knew who took a joint degree - and with good reason, nobody wanted to be working basically 24/7 on studying. It wasn't far from the truth that Tony couldn't afford to take a day off, he couldn't afford to stop – hell, everybody (Clint included) had silently agreed that Tony would just shut down if he stopped working. He just didn't need to be such a dick about it.

"Yeah, whatever Tony."

Clint made his noodles and went back to his room once more. The noodles, however, tasted shit thanks to Clint’s blocked up nose taking away most of his sense of taste, but hey at least could actually take some pain killers now to stave off the headache that had been slowly building throughout the day - Tony's insistent whining hadn't done him any favours in that department.

Clint was dumping his half-eaten dinner into the bin when Steve reappeared like a perfectly timed muscular angel brandishing a box of green tea for Clint

"You are a magical human being Steve Rogers."

"Glad you think so."

"You better not be trying to steal my man Clint."

Bucky was standing at the door way to Steve’s room, having come in with him before hand, he waved slightly at Clint.

"Feeling a little rough?"

"You could say that. Tony's making out like I've got the plague."

Bucky laughed. "A couple guys in my English module came down with flu not too long ago."

"Don't say that Bucky, you'll give me the fear," Clint teased, god he really hoped it wouldn't come to flu. Tony would probably lock him in his room if that happened, plus Clint just didn't want to miss lectures, sure they got recorded and posted online but it was never the same as being there and being able to ask questions in person. Flu would just be the absolute worst.

"Sorry, feel better, yeah."

"Yeah, thanks."

Clint liked Bucky, he was easy going and fun to talk to; even if he had Steve were a little, ahem, noisy, at times, Clint couldn't really hold it against them, he wasn't exactly a saint when Phil was in town. Clint kind if wished Phil was with him then, being sick would be a lot less boring and Phil might actually try to take care of him - but he wasn't there, and that sucked.

Steve was lucky.

 

* * *

 

Things went downhill from there.

Well, downhill in that things got more annoying. Clint's nose went from blocked up to running like a broken tap – because of course it did. He couldn't afford to keep buying tissues and resorted to using the crappy toilet paper he bought which, in turn, left his nose raw, sore and generally disgusting.

On top of that, his constant need to clear his throat stopped him from sleeping. All in all, Clint was very quickly beginning to look like a zombie with a rather red nose. Not the most attractive sight in the world.

"Not feeling any better then?"

"It's only been a few days, gotta get worse before it gets better? Right." Clint tried to smile through the fact that he really did feel like shit no matter how much rest he got or however much cold medicine he took - that's all he was told, by Phil and whoever else tried to lecture him on his cold.

"I suppose, just try and not work yourself too hard okay. I'll talk to you later, love you."

"Love you too."

Clint dropped his phone down next to him and lay staring up at the ceiling once again. He wished he was in Phil's apartment, somewhere other than his crappy student accommodation. Being sick on your own sucked, especially when everybody treated the cold like it was a zombie infection (well not everyone, but Clint wasn't past generalising. Being specific was only for healthy people).

He could only hope that the damn cold would go away and he could go back to being a normal healthy human being and never catch a cold again - because fuck colds. Seriously. With nothing better to do, Clint fell asleep. He didn’t actually mean to as it wasn't particularly late into the evening but the fatigue from his cold was weighing him down and his lack of taste brought a lack of appetite so there was no point in dinner.

Sleep was just the best way to go, so that was what he did.

Eventually he dropped off into a light, semi-disturbed sleep. His dreams were weird, not in a nightmarish sense but nothing really made sense. Moments were half finished, a dream would start and not end, everything was an inky, oozy mess in his head - pretty reminiscent of how his brain felt during the day when he was awake.

Hell, his cold followed him into his dreams, now that was the epitome of shit.  
  
When Clint woke up he was half convinced he was still asleep, like a false awakening, something felt weird, off in a way he couldn't put his finger on straight away. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and grabbed at his phone, it was sitting down at close to 30% battery but as Clint leant over to make a grab for his charger cable, the world suddenly spun and his mouth suddenly tasted bitter and stale. Staying, half off his bed and half off, Clint paused, unmoving and taking a few deep breaths he let the world settle back into itself.

"Fucking colds," Clint mumbled to himself. Looking properly at his phone it displayed in painfully bright text that it was close to half past 3 in the morning - he had spoken to Phil on the phone at 9. How had he slept for 6 and a half hours and still felt like shit. Lying back down Clint just wanted to go back to sleep, but he still didn't feel right.

Shit

No.

Sitting back up from his half and half position - he took a couple of deep breaths, holding his head in his hands. He was fine, the feeling was nothing more than tiredness. Fatigue. That dizzy spell from moving to fast after waking up. Nothing more, he was fine. However, the feeling refused to abate and instead grew ever stronger. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Clint sat with his head between his knees. It was psychosomatic, the feeling wasn't real. He was just getting worked up over nothing.

That was all.

The sour feeling in his stomach didn't pass and, alongside it, panic began to rise in Clint slowly and then all at once. Standing carefully, he began to pace up and down his tiny room. He wasn't nauseous, no, that was ridiculous. He was fine, fine, fine. It was all in his head.

"I'm fine. It will pass, and I'll be okay."

No matter how much Clint repeated that to himself he was still shaking, his hands flapping of their own accord. He needed a drink, yeah, a drink would calm him down. That was all it was, fatigue and dehydration. A drink and then some more sleep, he'd be just fine. Except it was half past 3 (well closer to 4 in the morning) - and Clint really didn't want to risk waking anybody up.

But at the same time, he didn't really care. The thought was close to the back of his mind.

The small flat was so cold at night, particularly under Clint's bare feet. The rough linoleum itched ever so slightly but Clint ignored it in favour of trying not to knock all the glasses out of the poorly stacked cupboard (he might have had something to with that shitty system of stacking). As quietly as possible Clint ran the cold water but once the glass was there, full and cold.

It was unappealing.

Emetophobic was not the way Clint would describe himself - even if it was 100% the truth. However, giving a name to it meant accepting it was a thing – and Clint was not okay with accepting it was a thing. Even if it was hard to deny.

The previous summer, Phil and Clint had went on a holiday which lead to Phil eating some dodgy fish that Clint - with good reason - avoided and as a result, Phil spent the night making friends with the hotel toilet. Instead of being the supportive boyfriend he should have been and staying by Phil's side, Clint, freaked and grossed out, left the room and sat in the hotel bar drinking coke and only coming back when Phil was definitely empty and dead asleep.

Was he ashamed of that little display – yes, because Phil was the best person Clint could ask for. But it was never commented on and they moved on with their lives. It was fine - until times when Clint got sick

Like right then.

He knew his hands were shaking and his stress was just making himself feel sicker - but what was he going to do!

"You okay?"

Looking over his shoulder, Clint came face to face with a sleepy looking Bucky. Rubbing his eyes a little, Clint could see the way Bucky's eyes looked him up and down, frowning ever so slightly towards the frozen form that made up Clint Barton.

"What, yeah, totally."

"Really because you've been staring at that glass for the last five minutes,” Bucky smiled. “Has the water personally offended you or something?"

Bless Bucky for trying to make him laugh, it was funny how intuitive the guy really was to situations - and also a little creepy.

"Funny. No, um, I dunno."

"How come you awake?"

"Fell asleep and woke up, was feeling a little . . . Ugh . . . A little."

"Sick?"

Was it really that obvious? Clint shook his head, he really didn't want to admit it then. Bucky gave him a small smile that was barely visible in the darkness of the kitchen.

"Best advice I can give you. Drink the water even if you don’t want to, sit down and try to relax for a short while and then try to go to sleep. I know saying don't worry is kind of pointless, but try not to stress too much."

"Yeah. Thanks Bucky."

"Don't mention it," Bucky replied getting his own drink of water before going back to Steve's room and leaving Clint in the darkness of the kitchen with the demon glass of water and his own hang ups.

Sighing, Clint took Bucky's advice. Took slow sips of the water until it was empty, went back to his room and did some more staring at the ceiling, counting the swirls of the plaster before curling up and wishing deeply that Phil was there to cuddle him to sleep.

Being alone made Clint want to cry.

 

* * *

 

The morning after a break down in the middle of the night was always awkward, luckily Bucky just gave Clint a smile and disappeared without saying anything about it. The disgusting feeling from the previous night had disappeared and Clint could only attribute it to having his nose constantly running and falling asleep with his head raised too much.

Still it was getting to the point that Clint just wanted to get better and be done with whatever mutant cold had decided to make residence in his body - it was still lingering, and he just felt awful and rundown.

"Feeling any better?" Steve asked that morning.

"Not really but Tony's stopped treating me like a pariah so that makes a change."

"Just ignore him, you know what he's like. Besides if he was going to catch something from you then he probably would have by now."

Clint sighed. "I suppose but at the same time, I just can't with this anymore. I just feel like shit constantly and nothing seems to make it any better."

Steve shot him a small, marginally understanding smile. "You'll feel better soon."

It was like he wasn't allowed to complain. He did get it, he was an adult, he could take care of himself. But all he seemed to get was vague hand-wavy 'eh, you'll be fine, it’ll go away soon' or complete ignorance. Thankfully it was a cold or else he might really have been fucked. God forbid he was actually, properly sick.

He probably would have just been left to die.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell it's midnight from how much I ramble. I went over this but if there are mistakes I'll catch them in the morning - I just wanted to get this out now or else I might not have got it out at all.
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> 


End file.
